Free The Presence by Eve Bunting Page A

wouldn't be a drag.
    "Do you have to train a lot for water polo?" I asked in my best, interested voice.
    "Yep. I was in the pool all afternoon."
    "Brr," I said.
    He grinned. "Not too bad."
    "I expect being tall, like you are, must make it easier to score goals," I said, searching desperately for something to talk about.
    "Yeah. Sometimes I wonder why I'm not a star. Especially with these big feet of mine." He held one up. "They're like built-in flippers."
    I laughed. "They
are
pretty enormous. But if they were small, you'd probably tip over."
    It was good sitting in the half-dark, saying ordinary things to someone as nice as Collin.
    "Here we go," he whispered as the lights dimmed, the red curtains slid smoothly open, and the dancers came on stage.
    I'd seen
The Nutcracker
performed many times, but it's the one ballet that means Christmas to me. I was once one of the sugarplum fairies in our fourth-grade production. I knew the music. I knew the dances and the jokes and exactly what was coming next, but I've always loved it. I let the music and the good memories wash over me, and I was glad I was there, not back at Grandma's, waiting for tomorrow to come.
    When Collin asked me at intermission to go out on the patio with him, I said, "It's probably as cold out there as at the North Pole," and smiled when he looked puzzled. So I told him about Grandma and her beau and discovered I was almost enjoying myself.
    We talked as we stood outside, sipping mugs of eggnog. The stars were as sharp as glass in the night sky, and the cheery spill of conversation around me lifted my spirits.
    "So you're going home the day after Christmas," Collin said, and when I nodded, he added, "Too bad." I knew he meant it. He liked me. I liked him, too. I wished he lived in Chicago, that I'd met him there and could get to know him better. I wondered if he'd kiss me good night later, and I let my mind enjoy that possibility.
    I looked across the patio then and saw two women, standing together, sipping steaming cups of coffee. One of them was Donna Cuesta's mother. She wasn't looking in my direction, and I was glad. My only conversation with her had been so sad and left me feeling helpless and confused. Was she the one who'd told me about the ring Donna wore? Or had that been Grandma? I remembered the "Missing" card with Donna's picture, CALL 1-800- THE-LOST, and although it wasn't that cold, I shivered inside Grandma's soft white coat.
    The two women set down their coffee cups and went up the steps. I thought they were going inside, but then I saw Mrs. Cuesta stop by the door, take a bundle of leaflets from her big purse, share some with her friend, and begin handing them out. I knew they had to be about her daughter, and I looked at her anxious, desperate face and felt my heart ache for her. I went in by the door where the friend stood, which took less courage.
    "Thanks," I said as I accepted the leaflet and kept on walking. I stared down at it.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL
? was printed across the top in heavy black letters. Underneath, but larger, was the same picture of Donna Cuesta that had been on the I-800-THE-LOST card and a phone number that was probably her mother's.
    It was Collin who said, "She looks kind of like you. Really pretty."
    I nodded. "I was thinking the same thing. I mean, not the pretty part. Just the same type." Those words were getting to be so familiar.
    I folded the paper small and slid it into the pocket of Grandma's coat. Donna Cuesta, I thought, where are you?
    "Poor Mrs. Cuesta," I said. "Did you know her daughter?"
    "A little. She was in the youth group at church for a while. After ... well ... after her friend's death, she quit coming."
    "Her friend's death?" Something frightening here. "What happened?"
    I could tell Collin didn't want to talk about it. He stood, looking down at his feet, scuffing a toe along the cement. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't be getting into this."
    But ... a friend's death.
    "Please tell me," I